It's a Wonderful Life, Bruce Wayne
by C. Montgomery Burns
Summary: After witnessing a vicious crime on Christmas Eve, a downtrodden Bruce Wayne is given the opportunity to see what Gotham would be like without him
1. Chapter 1

The Batmobile pulled into the cave slowly, slower than usual. Inside, Batman numbly switched the engine off as the powerful vehicle came to a stop in its usual location. The car's armored black exterior was covered in a layer of snow, which slowly began to melt in the heat of the Batcave. The hatch to the cockpit slid open but Batman didn't move, even as a bit of the melting snow dripped onto the Kevlar of his suit. Instead, he sat for a moment, staring blankly ahead at the controls of his vehicle.

"Master Bruce," Alfred called, approaching the vehicle from across the cave.

Bruce exhaled. "Alfred," he said, acknowledging the older man, before climbing out of his car and removing his cowl.

"I trust it was a productive night, sir," Alfred offered as his ward strode by him. Bruce only grunted in response as he made his way over to the Batcomputer and took his seat. His gloved hands readied themselves over the keyboard but froze when he noticed the small snow-globe sitting atop his filing cabinet. He paused for a moment, looking at the tiny festive house contained within the glass orb. It was decorated, with welcoming lights and even a snowman out front. A tiny couple stood in the doorway with a small child between them, waving at a companion coming up the snowy walkway. It didn't take long for Bruce to snap out of his indecipherable thoughts. His deft fingers closed over the snow-globe quickly and tossed it into the wastebasket beside him.

Alfred pursed his lips in annoyance as Bruce began typing, entering his reports with mechanized efficiency. Alfred checked his wristwatch, deciding to let the behavior of the resident Grinch slide for the moment. "I'm glad you're back. I was worried you'd be out all night in that ghastly blizzard. At least now, you can still attend the League Christmas Party on the Watchtower."

"I'm not going," Bruce said in his flat baritone, not missing a keystroke as he did.

"What?" Alfred sputtered, "But, sir…You said you were going to just yesterday. Master Kent, Miss Diana…they're all expecting you."

"Well, they're all just going to have to be disappointed then," Bruce said robotically, not looking away from the computer screen.

The British butler was about to retort when he noticed the reflection of Bruce's face on the computer screen. After nearly twenty years of Batman, he was well-accustomed to his ward's gruff demeanor and incessant scowling. Except Bruce wasn't scowling this time. Instead, his face was blank and dead glacial eyes stared back at him from the screen.

"Sir," Alfred ventured tentatively, keeping his voice gentle, "Did something happen out on patrol?"

Bruce's fingers froze over the keys, but only for a moment, before continuing their rapid pace, swiftly recording the information. Alfred waited as heavy silence hung in the air, punctured only by the dull rhythm of fingers hitting computer keys.

"Master Bruce–

"Nothing happened, Alfred." Bruce's voice was ice. The old butler shivered slightly beneath his tuxedo as the already cold cave became a bit more frigid.

"I was just going to suggest calling someone if you're planning on spending the evening in, sir. I'm sure Master Grayson or perhaps Miss Kyle would love to hear from you." Bruce gave no indication of acknowledging the suggestion. No part of his body moved, except his fingers as they continued their relentless typing. His gaze remained on the screen.

Alfred stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on his ward's Kevlar-covered shoulder, stilling his fingers over the keys once more. "Master Bruce, no one, not even you, wants to be alone on Christmas," said the butler gently, staring at Bruce's rigid profile as his cerulean gaze remained on the screen.

"Alfred, don't you think it's time you went to bed?"

Alfred pulled back, eyebrows raised as he assessed his ward. He knew that cold voice. Despite the wording, it was clearly not a suggestion.

Bruce sensed his old companion lingering off to the side. "I'm sure you're tired. Go get some sleep. I won't be needing your services again tonight." He still didn't turn to look at him and resumed his typing.

A jab of pain went through the old butler at the word _services_. Bruce had done that before, usually when he was hurt and wanted to be left alone. He'd emphasize the employer-employee aspect of their relationship in order to get some solitude. For the man who'd raised him and thought of him as a son, it was a particularly hurtful tactic that showed his ward's mean streak.

It would usually provoke the old butler's ire and lead to him putting the prickly crimefighter in his place, employer-employee relationship be damned. However, the dull, lifeless eyes reflected on the screen squelched the anger before it even appeared. Concern remained in its place.

"Sir–

"Goodnight, Alfred," Bruce said flatly, his dead voice clipping the last syllable off with a harsh sense of finality.

The old butler's shoulders sagged. His mouth opened, ready to say something, before slowly closing. He glanced down at the blue orbs reflected on the screen. They remained still, as if the cave and the manor and Gotham and the universe itself didn't exist and everything that was and ever would be was all contained on the Batcomputer's monitor. Alfred shook his head before turning and slowly making his way across the cave and up the stairs to the manor. He paused at the top and looked back. The cave was cold and dark, save for the dull blue glow emanating from the immense monitor of the Batcomputer, which Bruce's large form still sat in front of as he continued typing away. All the other lights were off and a black sea closed around the Batman's island of illumination. No sound came except for the regular clicks of the keyboard and the occasional sound of the bats nesting on the ceiling. Alfred looked forward into the house, festively decorated with wreaths, garlands, poinsettias and a large Christmas tree covered in lights. The ruddy glow of the roaring fireplace spilled out into the living room and the smooth sounds of Frank Sinatra's _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ played from the stereo.

"Merry Christmas, sir," Alfred said, before exiting into the manor.

Bruce remained silent and continued typing.

* * *

It only took Bruce an hour to finish the reports. He'd gone through them like a well-oiled piece of machinery, neatly and efficiently logging every single report from the evening and filing it away. He couldn't remember much of what he typed, just that he'd typed it and that it was more or less correct. He removed the suit slowly before showering, lingering underneath the spray for a while. He dressed slowly in a black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants before slowly making his way up to the manor, towel slung over his shoulder and dark hair still wet.

Alfred was absent and Bruce found himself alone in his festive living room. He frowned as he observed the décor, finding it more annoying than usual. He turned and made his way to the kitchen, quickly retrieving a glass and opening the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a Macallan _M_ bottle of whiskey and steadily filled his glass. He moved to put the bottle back, but thought differently and brought it and the full glass back to the living room. He sat in the plush recliner and pointedly ignored the poinsettias sitting on his coffee table like an occupying force as he retrieved the remote. He turned his large television on as he tossed his glass back, not bothering to savor the beverage as he began to channel surf. Different Christmas specials were on. _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. _A Charlie Brown Christmas. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. A Christmas Carol._ He flipped past them. He passed a bowl game, something tech vs. somewhere state. He wasn't looking too closely.

He finally stopped on Gotham's news network and began pulling directly from the bottle as Vicki Vale and Jack Ryder came on the air.

"Well Vicki, it looks like we're in for a white Christmas after all," Jack said, leaning forward on the desk the pair shared.

"That's right, Jack. Weather forecasts show that the large blizzard that's been hovering over the Midwest for the past few days has swung east and should hit Gotham tonight," Vicki answered as a map, showing a gigantic purple blob that Bruce still recognized as the blizzard despite his slightly inebriated state. True to Vicki Vale's words, the blob swung east and was heading straight for Gotham.

Jack gave a mock shiver and laughed in a way that made Bruce want to roll his eyes. "I would not want to be out in that weather."

"No, you wouldn't," Vicki said, chuckling along with her co-host before turning her blue gaze back to the camera, "And the city doesn't want you out there either. In fact, the National Weather Service has issued a winter storm warning and city officials are urging all Gotham residents to stay off the roads until tomorrow morning."

"Figures we get a snow day on a day we already had off," Jack quipped, laughing pleasantly along with his co-host before turning back to the camera, all joy vacant as his face took on a heavy look, "Now, in other news, a tragic double-homicide occurred tonight in east Gotham. David and Casey Browning were heading back to their car after catching _The Nutcracker_ at the Gotham Center for the Arts wh-

Bruce shut the television off, silencing Jack Ryder as his head was swarmed by unwelcome images, both recent and long passed. In the eerie silence of the house, awful sounds echoed in his ears as clearly as if he'd used a tape-recorder to preserve them. He found himself walking, bottle still in hand as moved without a destination. He soon found himself before the immense mahogany doors of the library, his library. Well, not exactly his. He owned it but it had been in Wayne Manor for decades and he could count on his fingers the number of additions he'd made to it.

He flipped the lights on as he went inside. His gaze swept over the immense bookcases, lined with texts both ancient and modern, all valuable. Unlike the living room, the library fireplace was off, but Bruce's eyes were drawn to the area above. He'd seen the portrait a thousand times before, gazed upon the painted forms of his long-since departed parents. His mother's gentle smile. His father's friendly visage. Bruce took a long swig, feeling the alcohol burn his ragged throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, mind assaulted by other images. Bright red blood on the dark asphalt. A broken string of pearls. The sharp bark of a handgun. Spent shells clattering to the ground. Two bodies, their life draining rapidly. Police sirens. Shrouds pulled over cold faces.

He looked away from the portrait. The bottle slipped out of his hand and shattered on the hardwood floor. Bruce ran his large hands down his tired face before storming out of the library, feeling the presence of Thomas and Martha Wayne still hanging over the fireplace behind him, kind lifeless eyes watching him go. He slammed the door behind him and slouched against it, only to feel the dull prickle of a wreath on the back of his thick neck. He hadn't noticed it before, but he felt his anger flare up again as his gaze roved over the circle of ivy and the large red bow.

The billionaire plucked the wreath from the surface of the doorway and went back to the living room. He tossed the decoration into the roaring fireplace as he passed it and retrieved one of the cheaper coats he had on the coatrack, a dark grey one, wool and, most importantly, nondescript. The wreath blackened and crackled in the fireplace as Bruce pulled on a _Gotham Knights_ cap and went to the garage, where dozens of his cars were stored. He grabbed the first set of keys his eyes landed on off the rack. The clicker unlocked a black _Rolls Royce_ at the end of the row. Bruce climbed in quickly and opened the garage door before peeling out into the snow.

* * *

Author's Note: This story is set in the DCAU and will reference specific events from that timeline. If you're unfamiliar with the DCAU, you should check it out. This story will make more sense and you'll enjoy some awesome shows.


	2. Chapter 2

_Mack's_ _Bar_ was still open. Snow piled up outside and the neon of the sign glowed only faintly in the blizzard, which was coming in harder and harder as the night wore on. Inside, the bar was nearly empty, minus the bartender and two patrons, one sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, and the other passed out in a booth in the back. The bartender cleaned a glass scrupulously, standing beside a surprisingly orderly row of bottles. The glow of an old television, showing a basketball game nobody was watching, mixed with the faint lighting from the bulbs overhead to give the bar an eerie, not-quite illuminated but not quite pitch-black lighting.

Bruce Wayne, slouching in his coat with his hat pulled down low over his face, sat at the bar, large forearms resting on the wood as his right hand lazily gripped a bottle of cheap beer. Even with the alcohol he'd consumed at the manor and at the bar, the pain was still sharp and the images and sounds still clear. He lifted the bottle and chugged the rest of the beer.

"Get me another one," he said in a gruff voice, drawing the attention of the bartender.

"You sure, man?" asked the bartender, a heavyset balding man with a kind face, "It's Christmas. Don't you wanna go home and be with your family or something? Sure beats get wasted in this dump."

"Just get me another one," Bruce said without raising his face, making sure to keep the cap over his bright eyes.

"Okay…" said the bartender as he removed the empty bottle, voice betraying disapproval that faintly annoyed Bruce.

"Bartenders shouldn't judge," Bruce said as his sole companion popped the cap off another bottle of beer and placed it in front of him.

"I wasn't judging. Just seems like a miserable way to spend the holiday is all," said the man as he went back to cleaning glasses.

"You're here," Bruce observed before taking a long drink.

The bartender chuckled. "Well, you can't have _Mack's Bar_ without Mack, now can you?"

"I suppose not," Bruce said, looking over to the basketball game and watching it with disinterest.

"Anyway, I'm outta here in an hour. Gonna go see my girl," said Mack, smiling to himself as he scrubbed the glassware with an old rag.

"Fun times," Bruce said dryly.

"I certainly hope so," Mack answered, taking his customer's gruff demeanor in stride, "Look, I know you didn't ask for my advice b-

"You're right. I didn't."

"But," Mack continued, "I'd still like to give you some. If you want to be happy, spend tonight and tomorrow with the people who care about you. It makes it special for even the most cold-hearted Grinch out there."

Bruce tipped his head back and finished off the bottle before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He examined the bottle cap for a moment and the little shamrock that adorned it. Without thinking, he dropped the cap into his coat pocket. He dug into his wallet and lay a twenty on the rough wooden surface of the bar. "Keep the change," he said as he got to his feet and headed for the door, not bothering to pay a glance to the drunk still passed out in the back booth.

"Merry Christmas," Mack said as he retrieved the money and the dirty glass.

"Happy New Year," Bruce grumbled as he walked out into the snow.

The frigid wind stabbed at his uncovered cheeks the moment he walked out the door and into the elements. The snow was really coming down and Bruce pulled his coat tightly around himself as he made his way to his car, still slightly buzzed. His large feet cut through the snow like sleigh runners as approached the expensive vehicle and got in. He started it quickly and cranked the heat up, hoping to dispel some of the lingering cold that had seeped into the car in the time it had been idle. Bruce slumped forward for a moment and groaned, wishing the alcohol had dulled his sharp senses more. Instead, it was all still there.

He slowly shifted the car into reverse and backed out. He drove without an exact destination, mind still overflowing with the past, both recent and long ago. The windshield wipers worked frantically to keep the surface free of snow as the blizzard bombarded the vehicle with heavy white flakes. The headlights pierced the darkness ahead as Bruce drove mechanically. Fatigue weighed heavily on him and yet he had no desire to sleep. Sleeping had always made things worse, made everything sharper and more potent.

Dimly illuminated trees and signs flew by as Bruce accelerated. He was dimly aware that he was getting closer to the city as the blizzard continued. The luxurious vehicle handled well until he reached a curve. One moment, the vehicle moved easily down the road with decent traction. Then the wheels passed over some ice, unseen in the darkness, and the car began to skid. Bruce fought to re-establish control as the car skidded off the road and into an awaiting snowbank. The impact slammed the billionaire forward as the airbag deployed and launched him back into his seat like a counter-punch from a boxer.

Bruce's head ached as he slouched in his seat. It reminded him of taking a shot from Bane. He slowly undid his seatbelt and ran a hand through his dark hair. He opened the door and stumbled out into the snow, heading aching and foggy and tired. He looked down at his car, half-buried in the snow with its headlights still on, before stumbling off down the road. He'd forgotten his cell phone back at the manor, although he wasn't sure he'd have used it anyway.

Bruce stumbled down the road, feeling the wind cutting his face and the snow accumulating in his hair. He'd forgotten his hat back in the car. Trudging through the snow reminded him of his time in Tibet, training to become the Batman. It seemed so long ago, like something that had happened to someone else, someone different.

The trees soon gave way and a guardrail emerged, protecting the road from a drop-off. Beyond the edge, Bruce could see the Gotham skyline. Enormous, dark buildings stretching up into an equally dark sky. He could see Wayne Tower, emblazoned with its signature blue _W_ , occupying the center. It stood proudly, despite the dirtier buildings surrounding it. It brought unwelcome thoughts of Bruce's father, the Wayne the tower had been built under. His father had often talked of his dreams for a better Gotham, his hopes of building the city up and changing it, remolding it into something his son would be proud of. Instead, he'd died in alleyway along with his wife, most of his noble ambitions unfulfilled.

As Bruce stumbled on, he came across a familiar sight: Pinkney Bridge. The old piece of ironworks spanned a tributary of the Gotham River and harkened back to a bygone era of Gotham industry. It was small, nowhere near the size of the bridge that spanned the river itself, but it was large enough for the light traffic roads on the outskirts of Gotham received. There were no cars with due to the holiday and the blizzard. The few that might've been out on Christmas Eve had been driven indoors by the onslaught of snow. Bruce continued shuffling through the powder and onto the bridge. Its metal surface was a bit clearer due to the partial overhead coverage from the ironworks and Bruce walked more easily.

He paused in the middle of the bridge. No traffic came in either direction. He could still see the Gotham skyline beyond him. Not even the moon was visible thanks to the storm, making the night even darker than usual. Looking down, he could see the smaller river flowing rapidly, chunks of ice borne downstream by furious torrents of water. Years of swinging across the tallest buildings in Gotham had made Bruce Wayne adept at judging distances. The river looked about eighty feet beneath him, maybe ninety. He rested his arms on the railing of the bridge as his mind replayed the events of the evening and of another evening almost thirty years prior. He shut his eyes and exhaled heavily at the pain the memories dredged up, the air from his lungs visible in the glacial air.

 _Failure_ , the thought echoed across his tortured mind. The images returned. Blood. Gunfire. Two bodies sprawled out on the dirty streets of the city. Not enough, once again.

Other images came. Other failures. Other bodies. Bruce hung his head as the shame overwhelmed him. For the first time in thirty years, he felt empty. Even in his darkest moments, that familiar sense of purpose that made the Bat had jump-started him, filling in whatever aspect of his life seemed to be lacking and dulling the pain with determination. It had helped him get up the times when he'd wanted to stay down. But he couldn't feel it, even as he tried to. The void in him ached even more than his head. He dully reached a hand up and felt blood on his forehead, a cut just above his eye from the car accident. Another screw-up.

As he leaned forward on the railing, his eyes were drawn to the water again. It looked beyond frigid. If the fall didn't kill a man, the temperature certainly would. Probably wouldn't take more than a minute for a man to lose consciousness once in. Going into shock would make it even easier. All it would take is falling in. Or jumping in. Gravity didn't discriminate and either one would be serviceable.

"You don't want to be doing that," said a strange voice off to the side.

Bruce snapped out of his thoughts and turned to see a tall gangly man in grey suit standing beside him. The man's face was kind but Bruce still hesitated, a bit disturbed that he hadn't been able to sense the man approaching, especially since he looked like a civilian, albeit one in extremely outdated clothing.

"Don't want to be doing what?" Bruce muttered, turning his gaze back to the river as he brushed some snow off the railing.

"Killing yourself. There's no sense in jumping," the man said, coming to stand beside Bruce.

The billionaire's eyes snapped up and he scowled at the stranger. "Who said I was jumping?"

"You were certainly thinking about it," the stranger observed.

"And how exactly would you know what I was thinking?" Bruce fired back, the annoying stranger worsening his already volatile mood, "Listen mister, why don't you get back in whatever car you came here in and get the f-

"I don't have a car. At least not anymore," the man said as Bruce looked beyond him and saw no vehicle nearby.

Bruce grunted in annoyance and looked away. "Then get walking and leave me alone."

"I can't do that, Bruce. Not until I've helped you," said the strange man.

"How do you know my name?" Bruce asked, turning again towards man and finding his suspicion skyrocketing despite the fact that Bruce Wayne was fairly well-known in Gotham City.

"Oh, I know everything about you, Bruce. I've watched you grow up from a little boy into the vigilante you are today." The man raised a hand to place it on Bruce's shoulder, only to have his companion jump back, cerulean eyes blazing as he glared at the man.

"What are you? Some kind of spy? You with Waller?" Bruce questioned, fists clenching as he stared the man down.

The strange man only chuckled, completely unprovoked by the billionaire's suspicion. "Nothing so crooked. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm James Bailey, AS-2. But you can call me Jimmy."

The billionaire's dark brows knitted in confusion as he racked his brain for anywhere he'd heard the name before, only to come up empty. "What's the AS-2 part mean?"

"Angel Second-Class. I'm your guardian angel, Bruce, and I was sent down here to help you tonight," said Jimmy.

Bruce scoffed and shook his head. _I would run into a maniac out in this weather_ , he thought.

"You look like the kind of angel I'd get. Where are your wings?"

"I haven't earned them, yet. That's why I'm an angel second-class," Jimmy answered, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Oh, of course. How silly of me," Bruce muttered as he rolled his eyes, "What do you want, mister?"

"I told you, Bruce. I'm here to help you," Jimmy said gently as he smiled at the downtrodden man.

"Well, why don't you go help someone who's worth it and leave me be? I'm not in the mood for this," Bruce snapped.

"You shouldn't say things like that. Why, without you-

"Without me, Gotham would be exactly the same. Crime everywhere, people still dying, nothing improving. Hell, maybe less people would be dead without me," Bruce interrupted.

"You just don't know the impact you've had," Jimmy said, finally placing a comforting hand on the man's large shoulder.

"Sure," Bruce said, gruff voice dripping with sarcasm as he shrugged the hand off.

Jimmy stepped back and crossed his arms over his gaunt chest. Bruce could feel the man's eyes on him but fixed his gaze ahead, hoping that the maniac would eventually get bored and leave if he ignored him long enough.

"So, you really think killing yourself would make everything better? Everyone would just rejoice and the city would be a paradise if you weren't around?"

Bruce's burly shoulders sagged a bit at the man's words. "Well, maybe you're right," he muttered, "Maybe it would've been better if I'd never been born at all."

"What'd you say?"

"I said I wish I'd never been born!" Bruce snapped, deep voice projecting over the winter wind.

"Oh Bruce, you shouldn't" – the man paused, thinking for a moment and rubbing his wiry chin – "Wait a minute…that's possibility…yeah, that might just work. Alright, you got your wish."

"What?" Bruce looked up.

"You've never been born." Jimmy leaned comfortably against the railing even as the storm kicked up around him. "You don't exist. You don't have a care in the world. No worries. No obligations. No villains to fight. No civilians to save. No patrols or league missions to go on."

Bruce chuckled and shook his head at the lunatic's nonsensical ravings. "Whatever you say, mister." The storm worsened around them, the wind sharpening into a fine point that penetrated his coat and racked his strong frame with shivers. He looked out and noticed that heavy clouds had descended over the city, blocking the view of the skyline he'd had a moment ago.

"What the…" Bruce stared out, trying to spot Wayne Tower though the haze. The heavier clouds made the night even darker.

"Your forehead stopped bleeding," Jimmy said.

Bruce slowly brought a hand to his forehead, feeling none of the aching he'd felt since the accident. Instead of being stained in blood, his hand came back dry. "Huh…what…what's happening here?"

Jimmy looked on the billionaire gently and brushed some snow off the brim of his hat, which looked to Bruce like something out of the forties. He shook his head and looked around. The bridge looked exactly the same. As did the river.

 _It's just the weather_ , he thought as he stepped away from the railing and brushed off the snow that had gathered on his shoulders.

"I need another drink," he muttered before turning to his bizarre companion, "How about you, angel? You want a drink?"

"I…uh, well…I'm not supposed…it's been quite a while," Jimmy stuttered, hesitant for the first time since he'd intruded on Bruce's solitude.

The billionaire ignored the stuttering of his companion and pushed off the railing, feet moving determinedly through the heavy snow. " _Mack's Bar_ might still be open. C'mon, we'll stroll over to my car an– sorry, _I'll_ stroll _you_ fly," Bruce mocked as Jimmy hustled after him.

"I told you. I can't fly. I haven't got my wings yet," Jimmy huffed as he hustled to keep up with his swift companion.

"Oh, of course. How could I forget?" Bruce muttered as he pulled his coat tighter around his body, trying to ward off the invasive chill of the storm as he journeyed back up the road.

Years of rigorous training made the journey quick, especially with his buzz gone. Bruce paused, however, when greeted by the sight of an empty snowbank conspicuously missing a wrecked _Rolls Royce_. He checked and double-checked the road, just to be sure. It was the bend he'd crashed on.

"Something wrong?" Jimmy questioned appearing behind Bruce so silently that it made the billionaire jump, much to his chagrin. Nobody could sneak up on him, not even Selina.

"I don't know that the hell happened, but my car's gone. It crashed and I left it here…tow truck must've come by or something," Bruce muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't look forward to explaining to Alfred why the vintage vehicle was trashed and towed across town.

"Shame," Jimmy said idly.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Gabriel. Let's go get that drink."

"It's Jimmy," the man insisted as Bruce walked off, knowing his gangly companion would follow.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce was a bit surprised to find the parking lot of _Mack's Bar_ full as he and his companion approached. The pair staggered in the doors, covered in snow and were greeted by the din of raucous conversations and indistinguishable music. The quiet bar the billionaire had left was now overflowing with noise and people, many of whom looked like they belonged in the Gotham's East End.

Bruce shouldered his way over to the bar, followed closely by his companion, who looked mesmerized by his surroundings.

"Hey Mack!" Bruce called, drawing the attention of the balding bartender he'd left less than an hour before.

"What do you want?" Mack asked, his face lacking the friendliness Bruce had seen before.

"Get me a double bourbon," Bruce ordered, leaning his thick forearms on the wood of the bar, trying to ignore how closely he and Jimmy were scrunched together by the surrounding crowd.

"Alright. And you?" Mack asked, turning to Jimmy.

"Now, that's just the thing…it's been so long," Jimmy rambled. He'd removed his ridiculous hat, allowing Bruce to see his neatly combed hair, mostly dark with a little bit of gray creeping up the sides.

"Look mister, I'm standing here, with a million other people to serve, waiting for you to make up your mind," Mack snapped, heavy face contorting itself into a sneer as he stared at Jimmy.

"That's a good man," Jimmy said, patting Mack on the wrist despite the fact that it drew a harsher sneer, "I was just thinking about a _Gin Rickey_ , but I don't know…I don't think I'm quite in the mood for that – Wait, I got it. Get me a _Hot Toddy_ , easy on the cinnamon."

Bruce arched an eyebrow at his bizarre companion, doubting if even Alfred would know what any of those drinks were. Mack looked even less impressed. In fact, his annoyance was quickly progressing to anger.

"You wanna order an actual drink or do you just want to keep wasting my time? Cuz if it's the latter, you can get the hell out of my bar right now," the bartender leaned toward Jimmy threateningly.

"Mack, just get him what I'm having," Bruce intervened, sensing the approaching conflict.

Mack frowned and ran his eyes over Jimmy again, who remained calm despite the hostility. "Alright," he said before shuffling off to get the drinks.

"Jesus Jimmy, you make those drinks up or do they actually exist?" Bruce asked loudly, struggling to project over the noise of the bar.

Jimmy seemed to hear him easily and looked affronted. "I'll have you know that those drinks were available in every bar I ever set foot in…at least until this one."

"Well, I've certainly never heard of them."

Jimmy waived his bony hand dismissively. "You're just too young."

Bruce snorted. "And how old are you? Eighty?"

Jimmy looked up at the ceiling, thinking for a moment. "One-hundred-eleven, next May," he answered.

Bruce found himself laughing despite the absurdity of the situation. Or maybe because of it. "Whatever you say."

"You don't believe me?"

"Don't worry. You're nowhere near the biggest nut in Gotham," Bruce said, turning back towards the bar as Mack approached with the drinks.

"That'll be four dollars," the bartender said.

"Sure…" Bruce muttered, reaching into his back pocket reflexively. His hand unexpectedly hit nothing but fabric.

"There a problem?" Mack asked, annoyance seeping back into his gruff voice.

"No…it's just…goddamn it…I seem to have lost my wallet," Bruce said, checking his other pockets and still not finding the familiar leather surface.

Bruce could feel the anger coming off Mack like heat off a bonfire. He turned to Jimmy. "You got anything?"

Jimmy chuckled. "Don't be ridiculous, Bruce. We don't use money in heaven."

Mack's large hands gruffly pulled the drinks back. "Joey!" he called out.

"Yeah?" answered a loud voice, belonging to a muscular young man Bruce identified as a bouncer.

 _He wasn't there before_ , the billionaire thought idly as the young man approached.

"Throw these two bums out. They got no money," Mack ordered.

"With pleasure. C'mon, gentlemen," Joey said, seizing both men by their collars and pulling them away from the bar.

Bruce struggled for a moment, knowing he could easily overpower a simple bouncer if he had to. However, a vicious _Hey_ from Mack stopped the action. Joey paused and Bruce turned to see Mack glaring at a broken old man that leaned on the bar.

"Didn't I tell you to stop coming in here, you goddamn bum? Huh?" Mack barked.

"I-I'm sorry…I j-just…I need…" the old man mumbled, his emaciated frame teetering beneath his brown overcoat.

"What? You need this?" Mack asked, holding one of the bourbons out to the old man.

As the drunk reached a shaking hand toward it, Mack threw it in his wrinkled face, soaking it completely. His dirty white hair clung to his forehead. He tried pathetically to drink the drops of alcohol that ran down his unshaven face. He turned a bit to get some off his cheek and Bruce froze.

"Jim?" he asked.

The drunk looked over and Bruce was sure it was Jim Gordon. His glasses were gone as was his badge and anything else that would've helped identify him as Gotham City's police commissioner. His facial hair, once confined to a well-groomed mustache, now sprouted all over his face with no order whatsoever. His white hair was longer than ever and completely uncombed, hanging down to his shoulders in a greasy mass. If he wasn't so familiar with the old man's face, Bruce wasn't sure he would've recognized him at all. Bruce immediately freed himself from Joey's grip and moved closer to his alter-ego's closest ally.

"Jim. It's me. It's Bruce. Bruce Wayne," he said, approaching the old man and gripping him by the lapels of his overcoat, "Don't you know me?"

Jim Gordon's hazy red eyes were vacant and confused. "No…" he slurred, "No."

"C'mon, out you go," Joey said, grabbing Gordon by his overcoat and hauling him out of the bar, leaving Bruce standing dumbfounded.

"Hey, that's Jim Gordon, the police commissioner!" Bruce yelled at Mack, whose face was contorted in disgust.

"Where the hell have you been, man? The drunken bum hasn't been police commissioner in years. If you know him, you must be a drunk yourself," Mack answered, lip curling as he turned to his returning bouncer, "Joey, please show these fine gentlemen the door."

"No problem," Joey said before dragging both men through the crowd by their collars, just like he'd done with Gordon, who Bruce was too busy thinking about to do anything.

It wasn't until he found himself face down in the snow outside the bar that Bruce's mind began working again. He pushed himself up on his knees and brushed the snow off his numb face. He looked over to see Jimmy doing the same. He staggered to his feet and looked around, hoping to catch sight of Gordon, but saw nothing.

"What the hell was that?" Bruce asked.

"What?"

"Don't play innocent with me! What happened to Jim? He was fine last week and now he looks like a mess! We've done a hundred fundraisers together and he didn't even recognize me…and what was all that crap about him not having been police commissioner for years?" Bruce ranted, looking around at the snow-covered vehicles gathered in the parking lot.

Bruce turned to see Jimmy sitting on the curb, looking up at him impassively. "Look, who are you?" he asked.

"I told you, Bruce. I'm your guardian angel," he answered simply, as if he was explaining something to a child.

"Yeah, you said that…" Bruce muttered, reaching a hand forward to prod his skinny companion. He half-expected his hand to go straight through, but instead his fingers met solid matter.

"What else are you? Some kind of hypnotist? You work with Tetch?" Bruce pressed, increasingly uneasy.

Jimmy chuckled. "Oh no, nothing like that."

"Then why am I seeing all this strange stuff?" Bruce snapped.

Jimmy shook his head. "Don't you understand, Bruce? It's because you were never born."

"If I wasn't born, then who am I?"

"You're nobody. You have no identity."

"What do you mean no identity?" Bruce asked irritably as he began digging through his pockets, "I'm Bruce Wayne. I live in Wayne Manor. I run one of the largest companies on earth."

"There is no Bruce Wayne," Jimmy answered, watching as the billionaire continued to search his pockets and come up empty, to his increasing dismay, "You have no driver's license. No car keys. No credit cards."

Bruce frantically dug a hand into his coat pocket. "The little shamrock bottle cap isn't there either," Jimmy stated before Bruce had even extracted his hand. The billionaire's eyes widened in shock as he slowly removed his empty hand.

"You've been given a great gift, Bruce," Jimmy continued, looking up at his frightened companion, "The chance to see what the world would be like without you."

Bruce rubbed at his eyes and tried to quell the very unfamiliar feeling of fear that was pooling in his gut. "No…this is just…this just some dream. I-I'm outta here," Bruce mumbled as he began to walk off.

"It's no dream," Jimmy said as he rose to follow his companion.

"Stay away from me, you maniac!" Bruce hissed, turning on the strange man, "You're crazy and you're beginning to drive me crazy, too. I'm seeing things. Just leave me alone!"

Jimmy stood still and watched as the billionaire ran off down the road towards Gotham.

* * *

Bruce hadn't had a destination in mind when he ran from _Mack's Bar_. Anywhere away from his alleged guardian angel would've sufficed. It was only after an extensive period of running down a snowy roadway with increasingly heavy traffic that Bruce realized he was getting closer to Gotham. He slowed his pace a bit then, satisfied that he had a few miles between him and Jimmy. He also hoped to avoid getting hit by a car.

The clouds hung low, obscuring the view of the skyline, but signs of the city began to enclose around him. Except it wasn't exactly his city. Everything looked clean, modern, minimalistic. Not the gothic sprawl he was familiar with.

Bruce shuffled into a gas station, with a remarkably clean white exterior. It reminded him a bit of the architecture in Metropolis, although Bruce couldn't recall any buildings like that in Gotham before.

 _Must be new_ , he thought, not considering any other possibility as he made his way inside.

The teenage clerk ignored him as he made his way to the cleanest men's room he'd ever seen. Everything from the sink to the urinals to the stall doors to the toilets was scrubbed to perfection. Bruce made his way to the sink and splashed some warm water onto his face. He looked into the mirror and took in his haggard appearance, the five o'clock shadow and the bags gathering beneath his sunken eyes. He was about to turn away when his eyes caught something in the mirror, a poster hanging behind him on the wall.

Bruce closed his eyes, feeling a chill run up his spine, before he turned and forced himself to look. A large poster adorned the opposite wall of the bathroom. Beneath the word _OBEY_ was the arrogant visage of Lex Luthor, staring out imperiously. Bruce slowly pulled the poster off the wall, trying to process the disturbing item in his hands. He shuffled out of the gas station and back into the cold, still holding it and staring it, wishing he could will it out of existence.

When he looked up, he was heading into the city. The clouds were now above him and the clean, orderly architecture of Metropolis ruled the Gotham skyline. The poster fell from his hands as he wandered down the snowy roads. People hustled past him, bundled up in their coats and trying to remain inconspicuous. Everywhere Bruce looked, he spotted posters or small statues or other décor, all bearing the image of Luthor.

He was so confused that he didn't see the soldiers coming, marching in an orderly column and sporting their perfect white armor, until they were about to run him over. They shouldered their rifles over their right shoulders as their heavy boots pounded the snow in rhythm. Near their left shoulders, on the upper part of their breast-plates, were insignias with a red _L_ that reminded Bruce of the _LexCorp_ logo. Their helmets were white as well, with narrow red visors that revealed nothing about the wearers.

Strong hands yanked him out of their path and slammed him into one of the city's clean walls, unadorned save for the _OBEY_ posters.

"Watch out, idiot. You trying to get yourself shot?" asked the man who'd pulled Bruce out of the way.

"No…I'm just…I'm just confused, that's all," Bruce said, gaze running over everything and struggling to process it. He looked up at the skyline and noticed a conspicuous absence. "Hey, where's Wayne Tower?"

"What?" the man asked.

"Wayne Tower. Y'know, the headquarters of Wayne Enterprises," Bruce said, forcing himself to remain calm despite the desperation he was beginning to feel.

"Man, Lord Luthor shut that place down years ago. Demolished the tower after he dealt with the Wayne's," the man answered, shuffling off before Bruce could ask him another question.

Bruce could feel his legs giving and leaned against the wall for support. He breathed deeply, trying to quell the panic he was beginning to feel.

 _This is just some dream or hallucination. Something brought on by Tetch or Crane or Nigma. Get back to the cave and figure it out_ , his mind ordered, reasserting control.

Bruce took a deep breath and forced himself off the wall. He staggered over to the street and flagged down a taxi, silently grateful that taxis still looked the same.

"Where to?" asked a familiar voice.

Bruce looked up so see Tim Drake's face reflected in the rearview mirror.

"Oh, thank god. Tim, I need you to take me back to the manor. There's something really wrong here," Bruce said.

"The manor?" Tim asked, turning to look at his flustered passenger.

"Damn it, Tim. Don't you start, too. Wayne Manor. Take me home to Wayne Manor," Bruce snapped.

"What?" Tim asked, "That place ain't-

"Just step on it, okay?" Bruce ordered, his voice angry and desperate in a way that made the young cab-driver comply.

Tim's gaze remained fixedly ahead as the cab began to move through the dirty snow and traffic, prompting Bruce to move forward.

"Something's happened, Tim. Maybe Tetch or Crane or maybe I just drank too much, but I need you to straighten me out," Bruce said, making the young driver tense up, "Now, you're Tim Drake. You figured out that I was Batman completely on your own and you tracked me down. You lived with me at Wayne Manor while I trained you to be the next Robin, right?"

The driver arched an eyebrow at his passenger's claims. "Listen mister, I'm just another guy from Gotham. I live in a piece of shit apartment in the East End, I've been driving this cab ever since I got out of high school and I've never seen you before in my life," Tim answered, keeping an eye on Bruce in the rearview.

"No, that can't…" Bruce trailed off before slumping back into cheap seats of the taxi, "Just get me home!"

Tim shook his head and kept driving. Bruce had his head in his hands and was busy mumbling to himself as Tim slowed a bit, spotting a police officer issuing a ticket to an illegally parked vehicle. Tim rolled down the window and slapped the surface of the taxi to get the officer's attention. As the dark-haired officer looked over, his uniform the familiar blue minus the _L_ insignia resting near his left shoulder, Tim did the cuckoo gesture with his left hand and pointed towards the volatile passenger, slouching unaware in the back of the cab.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce didn't look up from his hands until the cab stopped, his mind overrun with images of Luthor and the fact that Gordon and Tim didn't recognize him.

"Are you sure this is where you live, mister?" Tim asked from the driver's seat, his voice uneasy.

"Of course it's where I live!" Bruce snapped as he flung the cab door open and saw the old cast-iron gate, rusted and hanging open, its familiar _W_ crest long gone.

"Nobody's lived here for years," Tim said, getting out and standing on the opposite side of the cab, deliberately positioning himself away from his crazed passenger.

Bruce shook his head and rushed past the gate, up the snowy expanse of the driveway to the charred husk of Wayne Manor. Nothing remained of the proud structure but its crumbling frame, the absence of its roof allowing for snow to accumulate over the ashes of the interior, the living room, the kitchen and all the other places Bruce had come to know over the course of his life. The proud grandfather clock he'd used to conceal the door to the cave was gone, perhaps hauled off by looters. The library was nothing more than a shell, scorched wood and ashes that had once been books. Much like the house itself, nothing remained of his parents' portrait except its broken, blackened frame.

"Alfred!" Bruce called as he rushed inside, swatting cobwebs out of his face and trying to reconcile his image of his home with the dilapidated ruin that greeted him.

"He's not here, Bruce," said a familiar voice.

Bruce turned to see Jimmy, sitting in a charred chair by the scorched remains of the fireplace as he read, looking so comfortable that Bruce almost could've believed that the charred ruins were _his_ home.

"Y'know, I always wanted to read _Tom Sawyer_. I read _Huckleberry Finn_ and meant to get to this one. But then I passed and I've been trying to catch up ever since," Jimmy said, turning another page.

"Where's Alfred? What have you done with him?" Bruce snapped, his fists clenching as he prepared to interrogate the angel if necessary.

"I haven't done a thing," Jimmy answered innocently.

"Alright, both of you, come out of there now," commanded a familiar voice.

Bruce turned to see Dick Grayson staring at him, clad in a police uniform with his gun drawn. Tim still lingered in the background, having carefully placed the officer between Bruce and himself.

"Dick!" Bruce greeted, causing the officer to take a cautious step back and keep his gun ready, "Thank god! What the hell happened to the manor?"

"Watch him," Tim said nervously as Bruce frantically approached them, his large frame surging with manic energy.

"Easy," Dick commanded, keeping his gun trained on Bruce.

Bruce's head swiveled between his two sons, shocked. "What's the matter with you two?! I took both of you in! I trained you both to be Robin right here! Don't you remember?!"

"I think I should be going," Tim said, beginning to walk back down the snowy driveway.

"C'mon, just stay calm. I'll take you in to see a doctor. It'll be alright," Dick said as he attempted to restrain Bruce.

"Dick! What're you doing?! It's that guy!" Bruce gestured towards Jimmy as he continued squirming, "He claims he's an angel! He's hypnotizing me or he's working with someone who is! I need you to help me figure out what's going on!"

"Goddamn it!" Dick snapped as he grappled with Bruce's superior strength, "I hate to do this."

As Dick raised the butt of his pistol to knock Bruce out, Jimmy surged forward, successfully tackling the larger officer thanks to the element of surprise. Free from Dick's grasp, Bruce scrambled to his feet to see Dick wrestling Jimmy to the ground.

"Run, Bruce!" Jimmy screamed as Dick slammed him back into the snowy pavement and knocked the air from his lungs.

Without another thought, the billionaire took off, rocketing past Tim, who'd frozen halfway down the driveway to watch the bizarre scene. Dick had his handcuffs out and grappled with Jimmy's flailing hands.

"Help! Help!" Jimmy screamed, looking up at the cloudy sky.

"Shut up before I taze you!" Dick commanded, managing to slap a cuff around one of Jimmy's thin wrists, only to have the entire squirming figure vanish beneath him.

"What the – Dick sputtered and turned to Tim, who looked ready to faint – "Where the hell did he go!? I had him right here."

"I-I need a drink," Tim said, turning down the driveway and leaving Dick sitting in the snow.

* * *

 _Gotta find someone_ _who can tell me what happened to Alfred_ , Bruce thought as he sprinted down the frozen roads, back into Gotham.

Tim and Dick were both out, leaving few options due to the tiny circle of people Bruce allowed near Wayne Manor. Bruce stopped beneath a light post, sucking frigid air into his tired lungs as he searched the confines of his mind for a possibility. Somebody who knew Alfred and, more importantly, someone he might actually be able to find in this warped version of Gotham.

 _Leslie_ , the thought echoed across his mind.

"Perfect," Bruce mumbled, squinting to read the nearest street sign. Her practice wasn't far.

Bruce moved through the streets quickly, trying to remain calm despite the constant presence of Luthor and the soldiers marching through the snow with mechanized precision, scattering anyone who'd gathered in their path. It wasn't long before he spotted the familiar sign outside Doctor Thompkin's clinic, still there despite the strange architecture that sprawled around it. Bruce ran up and knocked frantically on the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the wind sent another shiver across his frame.

"Yes?" Doctor Thompkins asked as she opened the door. Bruce was silently relieved to see how similar she looked, still the wise old lady he'd known for years, her gaze still steady and professional.

"Leslie!" Bruce said, his excitement palpable as he stepped forward.

Leslie, however, stepped back and narrowed the opening in the doorway, ready to slam it shut and lock the large, wild-eyed, snow-covered stranger out, if necessary. "Are you in need of medical attention?" she asked.

"What? No, no…I just need you to help me. Something's happened, something terrible has happened to everyone," Bruce said.

"Help you with what? I don't even know you," Leslie said, increasingly uneasy.

"What? Of course you know me! You knew my parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne!" Bruce argued.

Leslie's wise face dropped into a scowl. "That's a lie. The Wayne's never had any children. Now, if you're not in need of medical attention, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said, moving to close the door.

Bruce's powerful hand shot out and gripped the door, preventing the elderly doctor from closing it. "Please, Leslie. I just need you to tell me where Alfred is. If anyone will remember me, it's him."

"Alfred Pennyworth? The Wayne's butler?"

"Yes!"

Leslie looked even angrier at the mention of Alfred. "Sir, he's been in Arkham ever since Luthor had Thomas and Martha killed. And, if you ask me, that's where you belong."

Bruce's hand swung limply to his side, allow Leslie to finally slam the door. Bruce didn't even hear the locks clicking behind him as he staggered away from the clinic, mentally and physically numb, before collapsing against a nearby wall.

"Strange, isn't it?" Jimmy asked, materializing beside Bruce, leaning against the same wall and still holding his book, "Each man's life touches so many others. Leaves an awful hole when he isn't around."

"Shut up!" Bruce snapped, no longer surprised by the strange man's appearances and disappearances, "I just need someone…someone who knows me. I can't go to Arkham. I need to talk to Clark, get in touch with the league."

"Bruce, there is no league," Jimmy interjected.

"Cut that out, damn it!" Bruce barked, "Now, I don't have my communicator but there's gotta be some way…The Daily Planet. They have an office down on 35th. I might be able to contact Clark from there."

Bruce shook his head and staggered off, clinging to his new goal as he maneuvered his way through the streets of Gotham, Jimmy following behind him this time. Traffic was beginning to thin out as the night wore on. He saw fewer and fewer people until he rounded the corner onto 35th Street, where he spotted a large gathering of them on one side of the street, watching an immense screen mounted on the side of a building. Bruce wandered along the outskirts of the crowd and looked up at the screen, seeing five of Luthor's soldiers readying their weapons.

"What's going on?" Bruce asked a nearby woman.

The woman looked at him like he'd just asked what two plus two was. "What do you think is going on? Lord Luthor is having more executions."

Bruce felt a familiar chill run up his spine as the camera turned to see five people, two men and three women, bloodied, bruised and clad in the orange jumpsuits of common prisoners. They slumped forward on their knees, hands held back by chains, which Bruce suspected were the only things keeping them from collapsing completely. From their wheezing, it sounded like even breathing was a painful task for them.

A soldier stepped forward and read from a tablet, his voice muffled a bit by his helmet but still clearly audible. "Barbara Gordon, Oliver Queen, Dinah Lance, Helena Bertinelli and Victor Sage. Each of you has been found guilty of insubordination against Lord Luthor and has been sentenced to death by firing squad. Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?"

Bruce watched with increasing horror as the words reached his ears. They all looked exhausted and broken, too weary to say a word. Helena, however, still managed to raise her head and spit towards the boots of the soldiers.

"Very well," said the soldier with the tablet, moving aside as the five armed men took their positions, "On my mark."

 _No_ , Bruce screamed internally, looking around desperately for something he could do.

"Ready." The soldiers removed their weapons from their armored shoulders.

Bruce looked for someone to help him, but everyone around him looked calm, like they were watching the evening news.

"Aim." The black barrels of the rifles were pointed at the exhausted prisoners.

 _Do something_! Bruce thought desperately, watching as five of the heroes he'd fought alongside for years didn't move a muscle.

"Fire."

Bruce nearly collapsed as the five gunshots rang out in unison. He fought to control his breathing and keep the nausea down as one of the soldiers moved towards the slumped over bodies with a pistol and shot each of them in head, just to be sure. Bruce stumbled off in a daze as the crowd dispersed, sweating and shaking as he continued down 35th Street, trying to get the images of his dead friends out of his head.

* * *

By the time he reached the location, he was too drained to react in shock when there was no sign of the Daily Planet office. In its place, was a small park, complete with benches and an immense statue of Luthor in the middle, clad in his Brainiac armor and holding what looked like a globe aloft.

"Are you sure this is one of the Daily Planet's offices?" Jimmy asked, coming up behind Bruce.

"I'm not sure of anything anymore," Bruce said wearily as he walked down into the park.

Jimmy stood back as Bruce approached the snow-covered statue. There was plaque beneath it, taking up one side of a large granite base and covered in snow as well, which Bruce brushed away.

 _Commemorating Lord Luthor's victory over the Imperium Invasion and the salvation of the planet, following the failure of Earth's alleged heroes_

"Clark, Diana, John, Shayera, Wally and J'onn were all captured and killed by the invading Imperiums," Jimmy said sadly, "The danger triggered the Brainiac transformation in Luthor. He defeated them and seized control. With Brainiac and without the Justice League, nobody could stand against him, not even Darkseid."

Bruce leapt up from the plaque and turned on Jimmy furiously. "That's a damn lie! The Justice League defeated the Imperiums! They defeated Luthor, too! They've saved the lives of millions of people!"

Jimmy shook his head. "Millions of people have died. The Justice League wasn't there to save them because _you_ weren't there to save the Justice League."

Bruce's mouth sputtered, trying to find something to refute Jimmy's horrible words, but, as he stared back at the plaque and felt the despair rising within him, he couldn't. Bruce collapsed to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

"You've made a tremendous difference, Bruce. You see, you really had a wonderful life. Don't you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?" Jimmy asked gently.

"Jimmy, where's Selina?" Bruce asked, raising his head to look at his companion.

"Oh, well…I'm not supposed to-

Bruce leapt up and seized the gangly angel by the lapels of his coat, forcing him to look up to meet his eyes. "I don't know how you know all these things, but if you know where she is, you better tell me!"

"I'm not supposed to tell," Jimmy sputtered as Bruce tightened his grip on his coat, eyes manic and burning.

"Tell me where she is!"

"You're not going to like it, Bruce," Jimmy cautioned, trying to loosen the billionaire's iron grip.

"Where is she?"

"She runs one of the last gangs in Gotham, called the _Black Cats."_

"Where is she!?" Bruce roared, hoisting the angel off the ground in his fury.

"She's down in the East End, by the old Falcone Shipping Yard," Jimmy confessed desperately.

The billionaire tossed him into the snow unceremoniously the second the words were out of his mouth and sprinted away, quickly disappearing into the storm.

"There's gotta be an easier way for me to earn my wings," Jimmy mumbled as he hauled himself out of the snow, stopping only to pick up his book.

* * *

Bruce made his way to the East End rapidly. He scaled a fire escape and leapt across the rooftops, his body knowing the routes through the seediest part of Gotham automatically. Some of the old Gotham architecture remained, crumbling run-down brick buildings, usually bars or pool halls or brothels. The new architecture, _Luthor's_ architecture, was scattered around, present but not the dominant force it was in the rest of Gotham.

Bruce shimmied down a drainpipe as he neared the shipping yards, the metal of the pipe like ice against his aching hands. He landed in an alley, the dirty snow crunching beneath his feet as he immediately began moving, bypassing the homeless people unsure if he was real or part of some drug-induced hallucination. He spotted the Falcone Shipping Yard immediately, past _The Lone Star Bar_ and _The Green Flamingo_ strip club, down by the grimy waters of the Gotham River.

Bruce drove his hands into the pockets of his coat and hustled down the street, ignoring the people asking him for money or offering their various services in exchange for money. The gate of the old shipping yard hung open, evidently abandoned just like Wayne Manor and guarding nothing of value anymore. He was approaching when two figures exited.

The first figure was nobody special, just a large man with cruel features squeezed into a coat too small for his burly frame. A cigarette hung from his wrinkled lips as he leaned down to hear his companion. Bruce knew the companion. Selina. Despite the change in everything, she looked the same. Her athletic frame was hidden beneath a long dark coat. Her dark hair was still closely cropped as she looked up at her companion, scowling as they debated something Bruce couldn't hear. He was frozen for a second by the sight of her as memories, pleasant and heartbreaking, assaulted him.

"All I'm saying, boss, is that it seems risky to keep operating in Gotham. It'd be safer to take this somewhere less populated," the large goon cautioned.

"Moving outside the city would cut us off from our connections and make shipping even harder. It's hard enough as it is with the troops everywhere," Selina answered.

"I just don't want to end up in front of one of Luthor's firing squads, is all," the goon argued, glancing around like he expected the dictator's troops to spawn into existence at the mention of dissent.

"Oh, and you think I do? You think I wanna get my head blown off on TV like Harvey?" Selina snapped, jade eyes flashing.

"Selina!" Bruce called.

The pair halted their argument and looked over at Bruce, haggard and wild-eyed as he approached them.

"That's far enough, chief," the large goon ordered, dropping his cigarette into the snow and reaching his hand inside his coat.

"Do I know you?" Selina asked skeptically, moving her coat aside and resting one of her nimble hands on a holster that dangled from her hip.

"Selina, I…it's Bruce. Bruce Wayne. We've known each other for years!" Bruce said, feeling the despair return as no recognition appeared on her face.

Selina and the goon both shared a frustrated look. "We don't know each other. Now, get lost, you creep," she said coldly.

The pair of criminals turned to walk away only for Bruce to hustle after them. "Selina, wait! Please, you have to remember! You're Catwoman! I'm Batman! I caught you stealing from the Gotham Museum dozens of times!"

Selina pivoted sharply and drew the pistol from her holster, aiming it at Bruce's head. "I don't know what you're talking about, okay? So, beat it!"

"No! Selina, I need you to remember! I don't know what's happened! I don't know if everyone's just got a bad case of amnesia or-

"Well, you're gonna have a bad case of _someone just shot me in the head_ if you don't get outta here right now!" The goon barked, drawing his gun and aiming it at Bruce as well.

"Drop your weapons!" barked a furious voice.

"Oh shit," Selina muttered as the trio turned to see several police officers approaching from across the street, their sidearms drawn, "Move!"

Selina and the goon both turned their weapons towards their new foes and started firing, quickly joined by the officers. Bruce dove behind a car as the residents of the East End scattered to avoid the gunfire. One of the officers went down, collapsing into the snow, gasping and bleeding. The goon went down further up the sidewalk. Selina disappeared into an alley while the two remaining officers ran after her. Bruce peeked above the car to see more officers arriving. Running on instinct, the billionaire dashed up the sidewalk, only to see Dick approaching.

"Hey, you!" he barked, reaching for his gun.

Bruce rushed forward and put all his momentum behind a ferocious punch the took Dick off his feet. As his son rubbed his aching jaw and staggered to his feet, Bruce blew by him, sprinting down the sidewalk as sirens and gunfire thundered behind him. He ran desperately, the frigid wind pricking his face as angry shouts continued in the background.

Bruce rounded a corner only to come face to face with a company of soldiers. "Stop!" barked the soldier in front, raising his weapon.

Bruce turned and ran desperately down an alley as machine gun fire peppered the walls behind him. Adrenaline raced through his body as he continued running, away from the gunfire and the sirens and the soldiers and the police and the watchful eyes of the Luthor statues that seemed to be erected everywhere. He ran harder than he ever remembered running, desperate to put some distance between himself and the nightmare he was living.

He didn't stop until he was outside the city, back on the less-traveled road that spanned Pinkney Bridge. Bruce collapsed against the snow-covered iron-works, exhausted, numb and shaking. His head was overrun with horrible images, images of the nightmare. Jim Gordon reduced to nothing. Luthor ruling the universe. Wayne Manor burned to the ground. Alfred locked up alone in Arkham. The execution of his fellow heroes. Selina shooting a police officer.

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" Bruce screamed out frantically, slumping against the icy railing of the bridge, "Help me, Jimmy! Get me back! Please! Get me back to everyone! Get everything back the way it was!"

The wind continued howling as the billionaire sagged against the railing, tears running down his face for the first time in years. "I want to live again…" he muttered despondently, hanging his head.

The wind died down a bit, enough for Bruce to hear a vehicle approaching. His animal instincts told him to run, but the billionaire remained against the railing, exhausted and covered in snow.

"Hey, Bruce! Bruce, you alright?" called out a familiar voice.

Bruce turned to see Dick approaching him, clad in a heavy coat and sporting a look of serious concern. "Get outta here, Dick, before I hit you again!" Bruce snapped, his fist tightening and his tears vanishing, "Get outta here!"

Confusion overcame Dick's features. "What're you yelling for, Bruce?"

"Listen – Bruce paused, the realization that his son had used his name dawning on him and a hopeful smile creeping across his face – "Dick, do you know me?"

Dick arched an eyebrow. "What? Bruce, I've been driving all over looking for you. Alfred said you were acting funny and you took off with no explanation. Then, I saw your car crashed up the road and I was worried tha – Hey, you've got a nasty cut on your forehead, Bruce. You sure you're alright?"

Bruce reached a hand up to his forehead and was ecstatic when it came away bloody. "My head's bleeding, Dick! My head's bleeding! Wait, the bottle cap…" Bruce dug frantically into his coat pocket and sported an even larger smile when he pulled out the tiny object, "There it is! What do you know about that! Merry Christmas!"

Dick was too stunned to move, even as his adopted father yanked him into a fierce hug. He swiftly released him and sprinted up the road, laughing excitedly in way that Dick wasn't sure he'd ever heard from Bruce in all the years he'd known him.

"Merry Christmas," Dick said quietly, still confused as he watched Bruce's retreating form quickly vanish into the distance, back in the direction of Wayne Manor.


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce sprinted all the way back to the manor, only stopping to cheer at the sight of his wrecked but existent car, still buried in the snowbank he'd crashed into. He also wished a _Merry Christmas_ to Wayne Tower, which stood in its usual spot in the Gotham skyline, nestled among the other old gothic buildings, not a single one looking like it belonged in Metropolis. Bruce hopped the gate and ran up to the front door, silently marveling at the sight of everything as he rang the doorbell.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred snapped as he opened the door, taking in the billionaire's wild appearance, "I trust you have a good explanation for this. I found the bottle in the library. It's bad enough that you drove off in that blizzard but to drive off drunk as well?! Master Dick mentioned the car. It's a miracle you weren't killed! I sincerely hope that cut on your head is the extent of your injuries because I'm no-

"Merry Christmas, Alfred!" Bruce yelled, overjoyed at the sight of his butler, so much so that he lifted the old man off the ground as he hugged him.

"Master Bruce, are…are you feeling alright?" Alfred asked, his anger fading a bit thanks to the younger man's perplexing behavior.

"Never better," Bruce said as he put the butler down, smiling warmly at him before hustling into the house.

Alfred stood back. "Sir?" he said, as Bruce bounced around the house, marveling at everything from the living room to the library and at everything within it, from his parents' portrait to the poinsettias resting on the coffee table. "Master Bruce?"

"I love this clock so much," Bruce said, busy running his hands over the wood of the grandfather clock reverently.

"Sir?"

Bruce looked up. "Oh, sorry, Alfred. I'm just…I'm…it's so good to be home."

"It's certainly good to have you back, sir," Alfred ventured tentatively, still not understanding what was going on in his companion's head.

"What time is it?" Bruce said, suddenly serious and looking around for a watch, oblivious to the enormous clock behind him.

"Almost ten," Alfred observed, looking over the billionaire's shoulder at the ornate clock, "Why do you ask, sir?"

"I still have time," Bruce said, relief palpable in his voice, "I can still make it to the league's Christmas party."

Alfred arched a white eyebrow. "I thought you weren't going?"

"I had a change of heart," Bruce said, his smile giddy, such a bizarre sight that it looked misplaced on his face.

"Well, I'm glad you seem to have located your Christmas spirit, sir, but I think you need to let me take a look at that cut before you go anywhere," Alfred observed, gesturing to the billionaire's forehead and the cut that was beginning to drip blood down into his eye.

* * *

Thirty minutes and several stitches later, Bruce was down in the Batcave, suiting up. Uncharacteristically, he smiled as he donned his costume, pulling his usual gauntlets on and buckling his utility belt. He was about to pull his cowl on and contact the Watchtower when he remembered something. He made his way over to the wastebasket and retrieved the small snow-globe he'd deposited in there only a few hours prior. He found himself smiling as he held it in the palm of his hand before placing it gently back on top of his filing cabinet.

He pulled his cowl on and activated his communicator. "One for transport to the Watchtower," he said.

"Coming right up," replied Mr. Terrific, the civilian workers having all been giving the night off to spend with their families.

Bruce felt the familiar sensation of the transporter working its magic, breaking him down molecule by molecule and reassembling him on the Watchtower instantaneously. The costumed billionaire was immediately hit by the sight of yuletide cheer, much like his living room. Wally had clearly gone all out with the decorations, despite Batman's earlier objections to even having a party and gradual acquiescence after weeks of pleading and after extracting a promise from Flash to keep the party small, a promise Bruce had expected him to break even before he'd given it. And yet, as he looked around at the enormous Christmas tree erected by the observation window and the garland and the wreaths and lights that seemed to cover every free surface of the space-station minus the floors, he felt a tiny grin tugging at his usually rigid face.

The main area of the Watchtower was overrun with heroes, so many that Bruce silently wondered if the entire league was in attendance. Over the chaos of laughter and friendly conversation, he could hear _Jingle Bell Rock_ pulsing over the speakers. The billionaire chuckled a bit before moving through the mass of people in brightly colored costumes. A few smiled at him, most just looked surprised and would pause in their conversations as their eyes landed upon the infamous Dark Knight of Gotham in attendance at a Christmas Party.

"Damn it, Batman. You just cost me a lot of money," said Green Arrow, edging over towards him with Black Canary at his side.

"It's not my fault Queen Industries' stock price fell," Bruce quipped as the two heroes faced him, each carrying a glass of unknown liquid in their hands.

"I'm glad to see Santa gave you a sense of humor this year." Green Arrow crossed his arms over his chest. "We had a bet going on whether or not you'd show. I just lost."

"Like you can't afford it," Black Canary said, smirking as she took a sip from her drink.

"You're lucky I'm fond of you, pretty bird, or I'd replace all your presents with coal," Green Arrow said, glaring at the super heroine half-heartedly as she responded with a wink.

"It's great to see you here," Black Canary said, turning back to Batman, "Merry Christmas."

"What she said," Green Arrow added, slinging an arm around his girlfriend as she rolled her eyes.

"Thank you," Bruce said, silently grateful that his mask hid most of his face. The sight of his two colleagues alive and well after what Jimmy had shown him had the stoic vigilante betraying more emotion than usual. "Merry Christmas to both of you, too."

Bruce found himself smiling again as he parted from the couple, moving through the crowd of his colleagues, his icy persona warming with each passing minute. He chuckled a bit at the sight of Steel wearing a Santa-hat on his helmet as he shared laughs with Stargirl and Shining Knight. The fearsome Batman soon found his way over to the refreshment table, festively adorned with a red tablecloth studded with Christmas trees. The table was lined with Christmas cookies, gingerbread men, little cookies with intricate patterns rendered in frosting. A large bowl of punch occupied one end and was evidently popular if the fact that only about a third of its volume was full was anything to go by. Bruce popped a small cookie into his mouth and took a cup of the mysterious liquid, moving away from the table as he chewed the holiday treat. He wasn't surprised to taste alcohol in his first sip of punch.

 _This is definitely Wally's party_ , Bruce thought, shaking his head but not feeling any of the annoyance he usually felt towards the younger man.

He spotted a loose collection of heroes playing some holiday game off to the side, including Vixen, Atom, Vigilante and Fire. He smirked as he noticed Booster Gold, stumbling around near the windows and obviously drunk. Others were dancing to the holiday music. A new song came on. _All I Want for Christmas is You_. His smirk turned into a gentler smile as he watched some of the couples dancing. He spotted John and Shayera across the sea of people, wrapped around each other and swaying to the music. Ollie and Dinah were doing the same, looking at each other with unabashed affection as they moved gracefully, completely in-synch with each other. Bruce felt soft in that moment, his icy exterior melting a bit as he basked in the warmth of the holiday and of his friends.

Mack's words from the bar crossed his sharp mind as he stood watching, sipping occasionally from his cup of highly-alcoholic Christmas punch. _If you want to be happy, spend tonight and tomorrow with the people who care about you_. He remembered.

A red blur shot by Bruce. "Merry Christmas, Bats!" Flash said excitedly, materializing in front of him a second later thanks to his super-speed and clutching a half-empty cup of punch in one hand and a cheap pair of gag antlers in another. "I can't believe you came! Finally get tired of brooding all night?"

"I said I'd be here, didn't I?" Bruce said without any of the usual venom he reserved for his conversations with Wally. It was good to see him, annoying or not.

"Well, yeah but we all pretty much expected you to weasel out of it with some Gotham excuse," Wally slurred, obviously a bit tipsy. Bruce kept a straight face despite how much the realization actually amused him.

"I didn't want to miss out on all the fun," Bruce said, prompting Wally to burst into a wave of drunken laughter at the idea of the Batman being involved in anything fun.

"Well, I'm glad you're here, even if I can't put any antlers on you thanks to those things," Wally said, gesturing to the pointed ears of the Batsuit, "Seriously, what tactical advantage do those things offer? Is it just cosmetic or do you have some use for them nobody else can imagine?"

Bruce actually chuckled at Wally's words, although he certainly wasn't going to divulge the inner workings of any of his technology to an intoxicated Flash. The younger hero's eyes nearly bugged out of his suit at the deep, rumbling chuckles emanating from the usually stoic vigilante. "You came to the Christmas party and you're laughing? What did you do with the real Batman?"

Bruce shrugged and took another drink, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it ran down into his gut while the sweetness of the juice remained on his tongue. "It's Christmas. Might as well enjoy it with some friends."

Flash smiled obnoxiously. "Oh, we're friends now, are we?"

"I was talking about Clark and Diana," Bruce quipped.

Wally rolled his eyes. "Deny it all you want. I know you love me dearly."

"You got me," Bruce said, chuckling as he watched the entire league celebrating around him and savoring the general feeling of happiness pervading the atmosphere.

"Speaking of the big S, he wants to have a founders meeting in ten minutes, sent me to gather the troops," Wally said, tossing back the rest of his drink and letting out a belch that had a nearby heroine crinkling her nose in disgust.

"And you're doing a fine job," Bruce said dryly.

"Hey, you're the hardest to find and I found you already," Wally said, slapping him on the back, an action that would've generated a growl from the Batman if he wasn't in so good a mood, "So, I'd say I'm way ahead of schedule."

Wally was gone in another red burst, zooming off through the crowd to locate the other Justice League founders. Bruce finished off his drink before he started edging his way across the crowd, towards the conference room.

* * *

To Bruce's surprise, he wasn't the last one to the conference room. As the door whooshed open, he was greeted to the sight of only three of his fellow founders. Clark, Diana and J'onn all smiled at the sight of him, which sent an unexpected jolt of affection through the vigilante's usually impenetrable heart.

"Merry Christmas, Bruce," Clark said warmly, moving towards the vigilante to hug him, but hesitating as he recalled his friend's famous distaste for physical contact.

"Merry Christmas," Bruce returned, surprising his friends and sticking his hand out for Clark to shake. Clark's goofy farm-boy grin grew as he shook Bruce's gauntleted hand, surprised but elated as he noticed that the infamous Batman actually had a bit of a smile on his face for once.

"It's good to see you, my friend," J'onn said, acknowledging Bruce with a nod, his flat voice tinged with warmth and a small smile on his face. Bruce nodded at the Martian, grateful to have him back on the Watchtower. The Justice League had missed his unflappable leadership and he'd missed him as a friend.

"We were beginning to think you weren't coming; that you'd be too busy with something in Gotham," Diana said, smiling at the small thaw she'd observed in Bruce's demeanor.

"Slow night?" Clark asked.

"It was actually pretty busy," Bruce said, pausing a bit as pondered just how true the statement was while his friends remained unaware, content with nothing more than the presence of each other for the holiday.

"What're we here for anyway, Kal? If I had to predict which one of us would be focusing on league business during Christmas, I would've picked Bruce," Diana said, smirking at Bruce, who didn't bother denying the statement.

"Don't worry. It's nothing serious. I just wanted to get all of us together for a few minutes before the party was over," said Clark before looking towards the door, "I wonder what's taking Wally so long? I thought he'd find John and Shayera pretty quick."

"They're not exactly inconspicuous," Diana said, pushing a strand of her raven hair behind her ear.

"Indeed," J'onn added, obviously happy for his friends. Bruce silently wondered how J'onn's wife was doing. He often forgot that the Martian now had a life outside the league after spending years sequestered away in the Monitor Womb.

"Maybe Shayera finally blew Wally out the air-lock," Bruce said dryly, his mind recalling the countless times the vicious Thanagarian had threatened to end Wally's life, usually in a way involving her famous mace.

"I thought that was your fantasy, Bruce?" Diana quipped, drawing laughter from J'onn and Clark and even a small chuckle from Bruce.

"No, I need something more creative when I finally dispose of Wally," Bruce retorted, making each of his companions laugh.

"The Batman telling a joke? You must be in a good mood," Diana teased.

"You have no idea," Bruce answered.

"You'll be glad to know that I found 'em before they started working on a baby," Wally quipped as the door swished open, entering with Shayera and John in tow. Shayera responded to the statement by smacking Wally on the back of the head with considerable force.

"Ow! Hey, no violence in the workplace!" Wally said, desperately shrinking away from Shayera.

The redhead rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't have lasted a second on Thanagar."

"Wally, you'd get hit a lot less if you learned to keep your mouth shut once in a while," John scolded, still holding Shayera's hand.

Wally looked at the pair incredulously. "I can't do that. I'm chatty. It's part of my charm."

"So, that's what he calls it," Diana muttered, although Bruce still caught it and struggled to keep from laughing.

"So, what's all this about? There's a kickass Christmas party out there that has been deprived of its host," Wally said, turning to Clark and still rubbing the spot on his skull where Shayera had hit him.

"Just this," Clark said as he moved over to one of their cabinets and produced a bottle of champagne and seven glasses.

Wally arched an eyebrow beneath his mask at the big blue boy-scout. "If you just wanted to get us all drunk, we could've done that out there."

"Your punch already accomplished that feat," John said, rubbing his right temple as the beverage continued to affect him.

"I aim to please," Wally said, a bit tipsy himself but still sober enough to enjoy the situation.

"No, it's not that," Clark said, shaking his head before popping the bottle and beginning to fill the glasses.

"Then what is it?" Diana asked.

"I just wanted to thank you all and this seemed like a decent way," Clark answered, distributing the glasses of bubbling liquid to each of his friends.

"Thank us for what?" Wally asked, "I mean, I know I bring you guys a lot of joy but you didn't have t–

"For everything," Clark said, cutting Wally off but looking warmly at each of his friends, "Before there was any of that out there, there was _us_. When we started this thing, I don't think any of us knew just how many challenges we'd face, how many battles we'd have to fight and how many times we'd have to save the world. But I do know that there's no other group of heroes in the entire universe that I would've wanted by my side and that the league wouldn't be what it is without each of you. So, thank you and Merry Christmas. If there's anyone who deserves a holiday, it's you guys."

"Wow," John said. Shayera, Diana and J'onn simply stared at Clark in surprise. Bruce felt surprised himself and struggled to find a way to respond.

"Stop before I start crying," Wally quipped, although the tiny quiver in his voice made Bruce wonder if there was a kernel of truth to the statement.

Clark flushed but still smiled, obviously happy to have said his piece and told his friends what they meant to him. Bruce had always wondered in the past how Clark did that, how he just said kind things to people so effortlessly. He usually chocked it up to what an innately good person the Kryptonian was. The more he thought about it, the more he became aware of how that applied to each of the founders. He also thought about how happy he was to see all of them, to know that they were okay and that things were exactly how they were supposed to be.

"He's right," Bruce found himself saying. The other six all turned to look at him.

Bruce looked at each of them, surprise and anticipation evident on their faces. He felt deep affection for all of them, reminded of all the times they'd stood by his side, defending the world with no thought for their own safety. It gave him the courage to continue. "You're all excellent heroes, but you're even better people. It would be an honor just to be a colleague with each of you, but I'm incredibly grateful to call you friends."

"Am I hallucinating or did Bats just say he actually cares about us?" Wally asked, so surprised that he'd forgotten about the alcohol in his hand.

"Bruce…" Diana said, lost for words at the usually stoic vigilante's sincerity.

"Did your heart grow three sizes today or something?" John said with a chuckle.

J'onn smiled at Bruce in approval, likely sensing his emotions. Shayera eventually shook off her stunned look and smiled at him as well.

"You do realize I'm giving you a hug after we drink this champagne, right?" Clark said as he looked at Bruce.

The Batman smirked. "Not on your life, Kent."

"Well, to the Justice League," Clark said, raising his glass of champagne.

"To the Justice League!" echoed his fellow heroes, founders and friends.

* * *

Bruce found himself moving through the Watchtower later. The party wasn't over, but it was winding down, with many of the heroes having gone home for the evening. The founders remained, scattered amongst the other heroes still enjoying the free drinks and music. Bruce moved over to the window and looked out at the incredible view. The world, exactly as it was meant to be, stood before him, flawed but not hopeless and suspended in space, white stars glowing beyond.

He could see the outline of North America and thought everything he wanted to do when he was back down there. Apologize to Alfred was first on his list, just before giving him Christmas off to relax and not worry about whether or not Batman was going to need medical attention. He also wanted to call Selina, see if she wanted to spend Christmas with him. He smirked a bit as he imagined her surprise at the idea of him doing anything remotely festive. He also needed to call Dick and Tim and Barbara, let them know just how much he appreciated them and maybe see if they wanted to come over for Christmas as well. Barbara would probably be spending it with her father, but he suspected his sons would be happy to. The thought of Jim caused Bruce to make a mental note to call the mayor and see if he could pull any strings to get the police commissioner a raise. God knows, he deserved it.

Bruce looked over at the tree, its lights still sparkling. He paused, however, as he noticed something. The costumed billionaire walked over to find a familiar book nestled among the tree's needle-covered branches. He took _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ into his gauntleted hands gently and opened it. Same book, although there was smooth handwriting marking the inside of the front-cover.

 _Dear Bruce,_

 _Remember no life spent helping others is meaningless._

 _Thanks for the wings!_

 _Love,_

 _Jimmy_

Bruce was so busy staring at the book and feeling his face stretch into a smile that he didn't hear Wally approaching. "Whatcha got there, Bats?"

Bruce swallowed the small lump in his throat. "That's a Christmas present from a friend of mine."

Wally accepted the brief explanation and moved on in search of something else to drink. Bruce continued staring out the window, feeling grateful and finding the view more beautiful with each passing moment.

"Good job, Jimmy," he said quietly, smiling out at the stars.

* * *

A/N: Merry Christmas!


End file.
